In the dim, pale yellow light, the Resident's features were twisting and contorting, gradually leaving behind only a vaguely familiar frame.
But the foot pressing down on Chaisi's chest was still Daiju Monroe's.
It was the foot of the mother from his memories—though perhaps that memory was just his imagination: a younger version of himself, stumbling and tripping as he ran between his mother's legs, his laughter echoing loudly.
The Resident had said Chaisi had been an orphan his whole life—what a pity—so it was going to help him relive a part of his memory of a mother.
Pinned firmly to the ground by that mother's foot, the air was squeezed from Chaisi's chest until only a thread of breath remained. The back of his head felt like it was bleeding—warm and wet, his consciousness draining away bit by bit. His vision blurred. All he could see was Daiju Monroe, her head tilted, smiling at Damian.
"Is this alright?" it asked gently.
